


Breaking Point

by glacis



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is getting testy, Blair is getting horny, and Mr. Id has had quite enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

Breaking Point, a Sentinel PWP by Glacis. Rated NC17 for pure fantasy m/m sex. Pet Fly et al owns 'em, I'm just venting some frustration. Fun, not infringement, is all that is intended.

 

*I wish I could figure out what on Earth is going on in his mind. It really sucks falling ... being in love with a man who communicates almost solely through touch. Doesn't do a thing to help clarify confusion, and he is so not into opening up about emotions ... or much of anything else, for that matter. What am I s'posed to do? Sign language? Semaphores? Leave notes?? No, even that wouldn't help -- he doesn't write to me either. Something's gotta give, man. There's no way this can keep on going the way it's goi-*

"You in there, Sandburg, or have you managed to wash yourself down the drain yet?" The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a dull knife. Blair leaned his head against the rapidly cooling tiles and closed his eyes, letting the water flow over his face, shutting out the involuntary surge of hurt that ran through him at the cutting edge to Jim Ellison's voice.

"Be out in a sec, big guy," he managed to force out through a tight throat.

"Not that there will be any hot water left." The grumpy complaint caused Blair's eyes to fly open again.

Shit. Just what he needed, to give Ellison something _else_ to complain about. Hurriedly wrenching the handles off, he stepped from the shower and grabbed a towel. Lately it seemed as if he couldn't do anything right. It was starting to get to him. Swiping a clear spot through the steam clouding the bathroom mirror, he grimaced at the tired eyes staring resignedly back at him from his reflection. Late nights and too many commitments were beginning to tell on him. The holiday rush, quarter ending exams, necessary library research on his dissertation, a seasonal rash of robberies and the customary stakeouts and paperwork sessions with Jim were dragging him down. If only he could get some sleep.

If only he could stop dreaming.

 

He knew he was cutting it fine, but how the hell else was he supposed to handle it? He didn't -- couldn't -- think that it was deliberate, but Sandburg was driving him around the bend. And it was getting to be a damned short drive. Jim closed his eyes and clenched his fist, feeling his jaw tense, and forced himself to take a deep breath. It was vastly ironic that the one person who taught him how to control his stress was the major contributor to it.

Not that it was fair to lay the blame at Blair's door. After all, it wasn't like he could help it. He was born that way. Exasperating, adorable, frustrating, sexy, irritating, beautiful little bastard. And every word applied. No, it was his own fault, his own weakness ... but fair or not, the pressure had to have an escape valve. Or he would explode. So instead he seethed, and his Guide was the one to take the heat.

God. The heat he'd like to give him.

The muscles that had finally started to relax tightened all over again with the unavoidable thought of just _what_ he'd like to give Blair and just _how_ he'd like to give it to him. With a final muffled curse and the knowledge that the only thing waiting for him in the steamy bathroom was cold water and the lingering scent of the one thing he couldn't have, he gave it all up as a bad deal and climbed the stairs to his bed.

Maybe he could just indulge in a nice hot wet dream and get it out of his system. For at least a whole thirty seconds.

 

Blair cautiously exited the bathroom and stared around the darkened loft. Not hearing any movement from the kitchen, he shuffled forward a few feet and stared around the corner, up into the shadows of the loft. The lamps were out, and there was a determinedly calm, steady in and out of Jim pretending to be asleep. He couldn't quite control the corner of his mouth when it quirked up. Even when pissed, the detective didn't like to let anyone know he was out of control. In the entire time they'd been together ... okay, that was wishful thinking ... in the entire time Blair had lived under Ellison's roof, he could only remember twice that Jim had been out of control. The first time he'd found himself pinned to the wall by the larger man, gazing nearly speechlessly into blazing crystal eyes. The second had been when the Chopec Shaman Incacha had died. If the third time was going to be the charm, he _so_ didn't want to be the charmer.

Considering and immediately discarding the notion of grabbing a munchie before trudging off to bed, Blair realized he'd probably fall face down in the middle of whatever it was, sound asleep, make a mess and either smother himself or not wake up in time to clean it up before Jim found it ... in which case Jim would probably take care of the smothering himself. Deciding it wasn't worth the aggravation, torn between conflicting but equally strong urges to grab his coat and run as far away as he could get or tear off his robe and run upstairs as fast as he could, he did neither. Dropping the robe a scant inch inside the threshold of his small room, he wandered naked to the bed and fell into it gratefully. Barely pausing to pull the bedding up over his back, he burrowed into the mattress, buried his face in the pillow, and was unconscious before he knew what hit him.

As usual, as soon as his unconscious mind slipped the leash, it went straight to the stored mental images of the Sentinel like a dog in perpetual heat. The detective hadn't been far wrong in thinking Sandburg would mount a table leg if it was handy -- the only problem was that the table leg would have to be carved in the likeness of Jim Ellison. Preferably life sized. And marble. And anatomically correct. Fully functional would be an added bonus.

Light glistening off smooth skin was always the first thing his id threw up at him. Jim was so sculpted, hairless and hard, massive, with a clear skin that seemed to give off light. It certainly gave off heat, and the inner core of the young anthropologist that remained cold anywhere outside a tropical rainforest or an arid desert gravitated toward that heat. Indulging himself in helpless nocturnal fantasy as he never could when conscious and aware, he warmed his hands on that heat, long fingers gliding along firm muscle and soft skin, palms cupping curving pectorals, tiny crinkled nipples, smooth sweep of back, tempting rounded buttocks. That strength overwhelmed him, comforted him, warmed him. Surrounded him, turned him, held him.

The first rough swipe of tongue over his nipples, carefully parting the fur on his chest to outline and tease the tender flesh, made him gasp and curl inward around the sensation. His arms stretched out, hands seeking, kneading into the soft linens, crumpling the material under his fingers. Ghostly hands held him down as his thighs were spread and the tongue performed magic on his body, evading the seeking warmth of his erection to draw teasing patterns through the thick curls at his groin before laving his sac. First one testicle was taken into hot wet warmth, suckled gently, then released, then the caress was repeated on the other. His breath was coming quickly now, each exhalation a small moan of delight.

God, how he loved that particular touch.

The tongue followed the phantom hands along his perineum, drawing his thighs still further apart, his legs lying in a relaxed sprawl as wide as they would go. The moans were mutating into whimpers as strong fingers pulled his buttocks apart and the rough heat invaded him as intimately as he could have wished ... which was pretty damned deeply. First gentle thrusts of a pointed tongue into his anus, stretching the muscle, wetting it, taunting it with the bulk to come, followed by long soothing swathes with the flat of the tongue, then that thrusting again. Deeper, deeper, so incredibly deep, and as the prehensile strength of that tongue melded into the wide hot length of a cock plumbing him, the whimpers became inarticulate cries. Each thrust reached impossibly deeper, fingers curving into his ass cheeks, pulling them apart so gain access, strong thighs driving against his own inner thighs, heavy weight of another's -- Jim's -- ball sac slapping against his own, and that tongue was on his back, on his neck, followed by sharp teeth gripping the curve of his neck where it joined his shoulder, biting down, down, sharp pinpricks of pain to offset the incredible pleasure as his world was torn apart and buried under that driving rhythm ...

He felt the contractions of his orgasm start at his scalp and the soles of his feet and meet in a fireball in the middle. The pillow only partially stifled his scream, not quite disguising the word he cried in extremis. He never completely woke up.

 

It was the sound that first woke him. For some reason the white noise generators had been irritating the hell out of him. Probably because Sandburg had thought of them, as he seemed to think of everything, and they worked, of course, because Sandburg had given them to him, and everything Sandburg did helped him whether he ever thanked the kid or not. Snapping wide awake again, almost irrationally angry at the thought that he couldn't even stop thinking about his Guide even when he was asleep, it took him a moment to register the noise.

Downstairs.

Blair.

Pain. Sounded like he was in pain.

All his protective instincts kicked in, along with more than a few proprietary ones he was going to have to eventually admit to having. His gun was out from under his pillow and in his hand, and he was at the base of the stairs before he was even aware of having made the decision. One long arm reached out and silently tapped the wooden door open. Sentinel-sharp eyes scanned the room efficiently.

Where was the threat?

No Brackett, no Lash, no mad Colombian drug runner's thugs. Just Blair, sprawled stark naked in the middle of the bed, head turned half into the pillow, hair spilling across the white cotton of the pillowcase, broad shoulders and long line of back undulating as he thrust his hips into the mattress, white globes of his ass clenching and unclenching, legs stretched and flexed, toes digging into the sheets in a perfect match to the kneading of his fingers into the mattress.

He was moaning.

He smelled incredible.

He was going at it like a champion cat in season.

He was sound asleep.

Jim realized three things simultaneously. His hand was trembling, so he flicked the safety back on his pistol and lowered the weapon to the floor. He was nearly zoning on the combination of musk and sweat in the air and the mesmerizing sight of Blair's ass, clenching and relaxing, shining with a light sheen of sweat. And he was hard, close to coming, without ever even touching the man writhing so temptingly not three feet in front of him.

The thighs spread, impossibly, further, and he found himself moving forward. He could see the dusky center, dark rose muscle deep in the crease, glistening with sweat. It was moving, and his sight zeroed in on the tiny contractions of the muscle. To his Sentinel enhanced vision Blair's anus resemble nothing so much as a tiny mouth, opening and closing, begging, to be opened, to be filled. He knew, without knowing quite how he knew, precisely what Blair would taste like, right there, where his essence was strongest, and saliva rushed his mouth at the thought. Before he could act on the impulse to bury his face in that inviting curve and make a feast of his Blair, the restless movements increased. Knees flexed, toes tightened, fingers squeezed shut. Two, three, four sharp thrusts into the softness of the mattress, and a new scent added to the fog of arousal around Jim. Salty warm, pungent, delicious. The whimpering that had steadily increased broke into a low, earthy moan.

"jiiiiiim..."

It jolted through his nervous system, every synapse in his brain firing at once, just from the spark of his name on Blair's lips as he climaxed. Suddenly dizzy, he grabbed for the door jamb and curled over, biting his own lip to keep his instinctive cry inside. With some amazement, he looked down at himself and saw the unmistakable stain of spilled semen across the front of his boxers.

Well, at least he hadn't zoned.

Not quite believing he'd come just from the sheer eroticism of watching Blair dreaming of him, he walked somewhat unsteadily across the short distance separating himself from his Guide. Gently lifting the blankets that had slipped away with Blair's exertion, he tucked them up around the relaxed shoulders. Brushing a loose curl away from the sleeping face, he smiled, all the tension and frustration of the last several weeks dissipating into certainty.

He'd let his friend, his partner, get the rest he so obviously needed. Come morning, they'd talk about what else he, no, _they_ needed.

He was looking forward to it.

 

FINIS


End file.
